“We were speaking of different things, I think,” he commented, and nodded approval at sight of the relieved change which his tone brought to her countenance. “I know very well there are many disagreeable and unpleasant matters close about us—when we are down below, there. But now we are up above them, and we forget them all, or ignore them—and I was asking you about the history of the family—its ancient history.”
She put her hand lightly upon his arm again. “Lord Julius is right about it being a very, very long history,” she said, putting into her voice a tacit recognition of his magnanimity. “I know it, in a certain way, but I can hardly make a good story of it, I’m afraid. The family is Keltic, you know. That is what is always said about it, as its most distinguishing characteristic. It is the only large English one which managed to survive through the Saxon period, and then the Norman period, and keep its name and its estates and its territorial power. This makes it very interesting to historians and archaeologists. There are many stone circles and Druidic monuments about here, some of which are said to be connected with the introduction of Christianity into Britain. You will see them another day, and read the legends about them. Well, it is said that the chief who possessed this land here, and who had some kind of a stronghold there where the castle is, at that time, was a Torr. Of course, there were no surnames then, but it would have been his tribal appellation, or something of the sort. The fact itself, I believe, is generally accepted—that the family that was here in St. David’s time is here now. It is a tradition that there should always be a David in the family; it used to be the leading name, but now Christian is usually the duke’s name, and the others are all saints, like Anselm, Edward, Augustine and—and so forth.”
The young man looked down in meditation upon the gloomy, historic pile. “It is a very grand beginning,” he said, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps it was too grand for mere mortals to live up to,” she ventured, with a cautious sidelong eye on him.
“I see your meaning,” he assented, nodding. “Yes, no doubt it is natural. It is as if a boy were named Napoleon. He would be frightened to think what he had done to make his name and himself fit together—and very likely he would never do anything at all.”
“Yes, that is it,” she answered, and drew a long, consolatory breath.
They had begun to move down the wide winding path, and when they paused presently at one of the steps to note a new view of the buildings, she called his attention to something by a little exclamation and a pointing finger.
“Do you see the balcony there, up above and to the left of the flat-topped tower—no, this side of the highest chimneys—there are figures coming out on it from the window.”
“There is some one in a reclining chair, n’est ce pas?” he asked, following her finger.
“It is your grandfather,” she said softly. “Those are his apartments—the rows of windows with the white woodwork. When the sun gets round to them, they bring him out—if he is strong enough. Evidently this is one of his good days.”